Dandelion Wishes

by Melinda Curtis

  There wasn’t enough distance between them. He was looking at her too intensely. Her feet moved this time. “I’m going to get over this, but I can’t do it overnight.”

  He kept staring. She could almost see his brain working. “I give you permission to sketch this out.”

  Not forgiveness. Permission. Emma wanted to scream. “Your permission doesn’t matter. I don’t have permission here.” She tapped her heart, suddenly realizing the truth. “It’s about forgiving myself. In order to create, I have to lose myself in the moment. I lost myself when I was driving Tracy. And the other night after bowling when Granny Rose slipped away, I was trying to sketch and didn’t hear her leave. I’m not ready to forgive myself. My grandmother’s safety is at risk, as well as the safety of others. Don’t ask me to do this.”

  His stare probed. He considered. After a moment, he nodded. “Get in. You need to see something.”

  “Why?”

  “For once in your life, Emma, do something I tell you without asking.”

  “You’re assuming you know what’s good for me. Throw me a bone and I’ll go with you.”

  He nodded. “We’re going to my house. Now get in.”

  A few minutes later, Emma ascended the steps to the Jackson home. “Why are we here?”

  “You’ll see.” Will led her inside and down the hall to Tracy’s room.

  The smell of fresh paint increased as they moved deeper into the house, but the walls she saw were a dingy white that hadn’t felt a brush or roller since Will’s mother died.

  Will took a master key from above the door frame.

  “Whoa.” Emma backed up. “If Tracy locked the door, we shouldn’t go inside.”

  Ignoring her, Will opened the door. “Okay, don’t go inside. You can look from the hallway.”

  Emma stood firm. “It’s not right.”

  “Look.” Will tugged her forward, until she bumped into his solid chest.

  She kept her face averted, but the smell of paint was intense, calling to her artistic curiosity.

  Emma turned her head. “Oh.” So much black. A bold statement as a backdrop to the colorful murals on every wall. Emma almost didn’t notice the disarray of Tracy’s furniture. Or the canvas with a flying worm on the dresser. She recognized the squiggly line as the worm she’d tried painting days ago, but Tracy had filled the rest in.

  “Tracy’s been painting her walls for a week now. And she’s been more confident, happier even.” Will ran his hand down the slope of her back. “Art heals, Emma. It heals and it forgives. You can’t just stop creating.”

  “But I have stopped. In my case, art doesn’t heal, it disables. It puts those I love at risk.”

  Will shook his head. “You don’t get it. Tracy—”

  The back door opened and Tracy charged down the hall. “What are. You doing? My room. Mine!”

  “I’m sorry.” Emma held up her hands and stepped out of the room. Why hadn’t she left when Will took down the key? She and Tracy would never rebuild their friendship now.

  “I wanted Emma to see this,” Will started to explain. “I brought her here. I made her come inside.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Emma said gently.

  “Get out! Get out! Get out! Get out!” Tracy slammed the bedroom door and locked herself in.

  “What’s going on in here?” Ben stood at the back door.

  “I was trying to help Emma and I messed up. I’m sorry, Tracy.” The pain in Will’s voice was wrenching.

  Without thinking, Emma put her arms around him and rested her head on his chest.

  * * *

  “I SCREWED UP, Dad.” Will sat on the living room couch, his head in his hands. Emma had left and already he missed the feel of her arms around him. “How am I going to make this right?”

  “It’s my fault.”

  Will raised his head and stared at his father, who stood across from him. “You didn’t invade Tracy’s privacy.”

  “No, but you’re my firstborn. I raised you to take on responsibility from an early age. And now you take on too much. You can’t make things right for everyone. People need to find their own way.” His sigh carried the weariness of years as a single dad. “People will still ask for your help from time to time, but you have to put the brakes on your impulse to fix everything for everybody.”

  “Hard habit to break.” He felt so defeated. “It’s apparently what I think I do best.”

  “We’re all a work in progress. You’re ahead of most people in this world by just knowing what your faults are.” Ben glanced up at the family portrait. “I’m sorry I didn’t do better by you after your mom died.”

  “You don’t have to apologize to me,” Will said gruffly.

  His father stood and patted Will’s knee. “Apologies are part of every relationship, along with forgiveness.” He headed toward the front door.

  “But what am I going to do? About Tracy and the float and...everything.”

  Ben paused. “You have to give things up, son. The responsibility, the control, the judging. Life’s mountains are high. Let someone else carry the load for a while.”

  Impossible. If he let things go, his life would be chaos.

  His dad opened the door.

  “Wait.” Will stood, closing the distance between them. “Wait.”

  And then they were hugging as they hadn’t hugged since learning about Tracy’s accident.

  “I love you, Dad.”

  “I love you, too, son.” Ben’s voice was husky. He thumped Will’s shoulder. “Remember, the way to get to the top of life’s most challenging mountains is easy. Just take one step at a time.”

  * * *

  “THAT CAT’S GOING to be more trouble than he’s worth,” Granny Rose said, watching Emma release Ping from his carrier.

  She had taken the cat when she’d left Will, along with the small bag of kitty litter and cat food she’d noticed on his floorboards. Granted, it was an armful, but she hadn’t had far to walk. And Ping’s cries had helped drown out the memory of Tracy’s anger.

  With a tentative meow, the one-eyed cat crept out of the carrier, sniffed at the bowls of food and water then proceeded toward the makeshift litter box. He gave it a sniff before slinking over to Emma with a superior look.

  Emma leaned down and stroked his short, silky fur. “Do you want to stay in Harmony Valley, Granny Rose?”

  “I’m going to die here, come earthquake or high water.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “What’s this about?”

  “I’m going to need you to sit here with me and Ping. And sing.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “Because I don’t like the soundtrack that plays in my head when I try to paint.” Emma met her grandmother’s clear gaze. “Because if you want to stay here, you need emergency services restored, not to mention a doctor’s exam for those mood swings of yours.”

  Her grandmother huffed. “I have never had mood swings in my life.”

  “Call them whatever you like. As soon as Mom’s trial is over, she’s going to show up on your doorstep with a brochure for a retirement home in Sacramento. You know how stubborn she can be. You need to reassure her you’ll be safe here.”

  “How does me sitting here and singing with a cat do that?”

  “It won’t. Unless I can paint.” Emma faced the easel.

  Granny Rose started to sing “A Spoonful of Sugar” from Mary Poppins.

  At Emma’s feet, Ping meowed pitifully.

  Emma reminded herself this was important. Being able to paint the float wasn’t about her lifelong dream. It was about helping others. Painting as volunteer work. She liked that angle.

  But when she picked up a brush, her hands didn’t like that angle, or any other one she could think of.

&
nbsp; The diesel engine roared louder than the voices of Ping and Granny Rose.

  * * *

  ONE STEP AT a time.

  After lunch, Will surveyed his team and tried to quell the nervous beat of his heart.

  Flynn and Slade had assembled tools on the old barn’s workbench. Tracy stood at the barn door, arms crossed and scowling. Facing the bare trailer, Emma sat on an old milk crate, looking as closed off as she had that day beneath the willow.

  Will put his hands in his jeans pockets, took them out, put them back in again.

  One step at a time.

  “Here’s the thing.” Will recited the words he’d been practicing all morning, words that were humbling because they were an admission that he wasn’t perfect. “My name is Will, and I’m a control freak.”

  They all stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. All except Emma. She tilted her head expectantly.

  Her consideration gave him strength. “I need to step back and let you lead.”

  Emma began to smile.

  “Why do you want me to lead?” Flynn deadpanned.

  “No, idiot.” Slade pushed his shoulder. “The collective you, as in all of us.”

  Flynn rubbed his shoulder, grinning. “I knew that. The question is, why is our fearless leader stepping back?”

  “It’s come to my attention that I can be an overbearing jerk, trying to force what I feel is right on other people. I tend to think I know what’s best for everyone, which isn’t the way to be a good brother.” He nodded at Tracy. “Or a friend.” He nodded at Slade and Flynn, and then turned to Emma. “Or a...friend.” That was awkward.

  Will pressed on. “I jumped at the chance to start a winery without telling my business partners all the reasons why. I considered my sister’s challenges a disability and tried to plan her life accordingly. And I set the boundaries of her friendship when I had no right to interfere. I could go on, but at this point, I’ll apologize.”

  Slade cleared his throat. “There’s no need to apologize to me.”

  “Or me,” Flynn chimed in.

  The jury was still out with Tracy. She stared at the rows of grapevines, silent.

  “I have one question.” Emma stood, her hands in her back pockets as she stared at Will. “Do you forgive me for the accident?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  TRACY HADN’T FELT this good since before the accident.

  Nearly two weeks into the project, she loved working on the float. Emma wanted no part of the painting, so Tracy did everything. She loved the smooth regularity of the stroke of the brush. She loved the banter between Flynn and Slade, and the pop, pop, pop of Emma working the nail gun.

  The float took form when Emma worked. Will, Flynn and Slade mostly argued about the length of boards and the size of cardboard they were cutting. It seemed like they had to double cut everything. Things would have gone smoother if Will had taken charge. They made decisions by committee and sometimes they didn’t agree.

  But not everything was perfect.

  Tracy hated the way Will looked at Emma when he thought no one was watching, as if Emma had stomped on his heart. What did he expect when he hadn’t said that he’d forgiven her for the accident? And she hated how awkward it was in the barn when she and Emma worked alone, or when Will and Emma were working on something together.

  Finding Emma in her bedroom that day was like being back in the rehabilitation hospital where anyone could walk in while Tracy was changing. No one respected your privacy. But for Will to have let Emma in her room was the worst of betrayals. She hadn’t talked to either of them since. She’d drawn out her hurt until it seemed too late to accept their apologies. Instead, Tracy poured herself into painting as her own form of recovery.

  When her work was done, she snuck off to visit different residents in Harmony Valley. She never went back to the same house twice. Nope, she visited a different person each time and carefully told them her story. A therapist had once said that the more you spoke about a tragedy out loud, the easier it was to bear.

  Tracy didn’t know about easier. She just knew that it felt good to talk about the accident. She told Felix about the rescue workers while she held a fuzzy white kitten. She told Agnes about the wild and crazy Mediflight ride over a cup of tea. She traded walker war stories with Mildred as she baked cookies. And every day her speech felt smoother, easier. Who needed shock therapy? She could control aphasia all by herself.

  Just not in time to be the town’s Grand Marshal. The thought still made her feel sick.

  And then one afternoon, while she was painting, alone for once since Emma had print ad work to do and the men had gone into town, an SUV pulled into the barn doorway.

  “Excuse me.” A handsome man with the slick smile of a salesman got out of the passenger side.

  Tracy felt a moment of panic. This stranger would expect her speech to be smooth. “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for Will Jackson.”

  He was checking out her legs. No one had looked at her legs like that since Las Vegas. A tiny thrill raced up her spine. “He’s...uh...not here.”

  “Can I wait?”

  Tracy opened her mouth to say yes, but realized if she did, she’d have to make polite conversation. “Who. Are you?” Not now. Don’t start talking like an idiot now.

  “I’m Quinn Yardley, Action News in Santa Rosa. I was hoping to do an interview with Will Jackson about a winery he’s starting.” He closed the gap between them and reached up, extending his hand. “And you are?”

  “Tracy.” Her hand felt like a limp noodle in his. “Jackson.” And then her hand convulsed, capturing his. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Play it cool. She released his fingers.

  “Will’s sister?” Quinn’s smile broadened like a snake’s mouth right before it unhinged its jaws to swallow its prey. “It’s always great to have additional insight on a story. You don’t mind if we ask you a few questions.”

  The driver of the SUV had been standing near the car door. He retrieved a camera from the backseat.

  “I...uh...” Tracy drew back, nearly tumbling on to the gelato parlor she’d been painting.

  “I didn’t think you’d mind.” Quinn turned to his cameraman, pulling a microphone out of his pocket. “Is there enough light in here?”

  Tracy could feel her throat closing up and her tongue thickening. The air lodged inside her lungs.

  “There’s enough light, but she’ll need to come down off that trailer.”

  “No,” Tracy croaked.

  Quinn looked at her as if she was refusing the highest of honors. “No? It’ll only take a few minutes. What is it you’re painting?”

  “You need...to go.”

  “Now, Tracy,” he said in a cajoling voice, the same tone of voice her therapists used when they wanted to make her feel guilty for not completing an exercise when she was too tired, too demoralized or too angry.

  “I will. Not. Be on. Camera.” Tracy drew a breath. “You. Need to...to leave.”

  Quinn looked at her as if she were a curious lab specimen.

  She hated herself for being imperfect. She hated aphasia.

  “What’s all this?” Emma appeared in the doorway wearing her old paint-splattered overall shorts and a messy ponytail. “Who are you?”

  Quinn stepped forward and introduced himself.

  Emma took one look at Tracy’s face and ignored his outstretched hand. “Gentlemen, you’re trespassing.”

  “We didn’t mean to upset anyone,” Quinn said smoothly, lowering his voice. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “Nothing is wrong with her,” Emma said in icy tones that matched the temperature of Tracy’s insides. She walked over to the nail-gun compressor, turned it on and took aim at the tire of their SUV. “Now leave, before walking becomes your only option out of here.
”

  “We won’t come back,” Quinn said, as if that meant something to either one of them.

  Emma stood guard until the SUV disappeared down the driveway. She shut off the compressor but remained facing the driveway. “I’m so sorry, Tracy.”

  Tracy barely heard her as she ran out the back door.

  * * *

  NO ONE WAS working on the float.

  Flynn and Slade had bought groceries in Cloverdale. After dropping them off at their respective houses, Will had driven to the barn. The women were nowhere to be seen.

  “Tracy? Emma?” He unloaded the lumber and additional cardboard he’d picked up. They’d underestimated their need for materials since they’d overestimated their skill at carpentry. Well, Flynn was skilled, but Will and Slade didn’t like to let him have all the fun. Hence the wasted supplies.

  “Tracy? Emma?” Will walked around to the back of the barn, calling for them again. He followed the trail to the river. When he reached the trees he found Emma sitting on the bank tossing pebbles. “Hey. What’s going on? Where’s Tracy?”

  Emma didn’t say a word. She just kept winding up and pitching stones.

  Will sat down next to her. She hadn’t talked to him during the entire build other than to ask him for a hand. He’d missed their sparring. He’d missed her superior grin. He’d missed her.

  Emma’s cheeks were streaked with tears. Her breathing was ragged. “I’ve lost Tracy,” she said in a small voice.

  He slipped an arm around her and pulled her close, as he’d been wanting to do since the night he’d kissed her.

  Emma turned her face into his shoulder and sobbed once. Just once. And then with a huge, shuddering sigh, she sat up and lifted her dark, watery gaze to his.

  “People think she’s broken,” she whispered.

  Will used to be among them. Now he viewed her aphasia more like a handicap in a horse race. Tracy carried more weight than the rest of them. Life would be harder for her, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t run.

  “She’s not broken.” Emma straightened, but kept her gaze locked on his. “She’s so much smarter than I am. And quicker at putting things together up here.” She tapped her temple. “How could anyone look at her and think there’s something wrong with her?” She disengaged herself, grabbed a sizable rock and threw it into the river. A line drive. He remembered teaching her and Tracy how to throw a baseball. Emma had been awkwardly enthusiastic, determined to conquer the skill in her own way.